About Falling
by Piranha Juicy-Snobb
Summary: She would look down on him, like always, scoffing and stomping on his words. I'm sorry, stomp, I love you, stomp.


**Title:** About Falling  
**Author:** longerthanwedo  
**Pairing/Character:** Logan, mentioned Logan/Veronica  
**Word Count:** ~1,000  
**Rating:** R for suicide  
**Summary:** _She would look down on him, like always, scoffing and stomping on his words. I'm sorry, stomp, I love you, stomp._ Written for the April Showers challenge at vmfic_gameon. This is my first Veronica Mars fic, so I'll just say, hi, my name is Shawna, and I'm the queen of angst.  
**Spoilers:** General spoilers for Logan and Veronica's relationship, but nothing specific.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters, and am in no way associated with those who do.

Exhaustion, that's what it is.

Bone-cracking, numbing exhaustion. But it isn't the kind of numb where the pain goes away, it's the kind where all other feeling, all other emotion is muted, and only pain remains. Dull, aching, searing at times when the memories are strongest.

Maybe it's the memories that make Logan so weary, all those days playing over and over in his head, volume turned up so loud he has to cover his ears. That only makes it worse, though, traps the sound inside his head. All those voices, her voice, her voice over and over, her voice telling him, _it's done_.

It was always her voice, and that's what drives Logan crazy.

It was always her, always, even when she couldn't see it. His thoughts were fogged, so clouded with her, her, her, that he couldn't see straight. He swerved and fell and tumbled and she watched, looking down on him, tears spilling onto his head and making it even more confused.

It was the reason he made mistakes, it was her fault for filling up his mind, but she couldn't see that, couldn't read what he was thinking, and he couldn't tell her. Mostly because he couldn't find the words.

He couldn't find the words to tell her how she made him feel, but she could speak enough to break his heart.

It's not just his heart, though. Every bone in his body feels like it's been broken and glued back together, makeshift, so that his limbs creak under the stress of walking, sitting, living. His body is littered with cracks, and inside each her name, _Veronica, Veronica, Veronica_.

_I need you_, he thinks, _I need you but you don't need me_. The cracks widen, and he almost screams in pain. He can't get away.

Part of him wishes he could face her now, wishes he could stand in front of her, broken and barely holding together. Part of him wishes he could make her regret what she did. But the other part, the rational part, the part where her influence is thinnest, knows that wouldn't work. She would look down on him, like always, scoffing and stomping on his words. _I'm sorry_, stomp, _I love you_, stomp.

That part of him wants to gather strength, paint over his bruises and confront her, standing tall. That part wants to slap her, watch her mouth fall open and laugh, saying, _See? I can hurt you too_.

But the bigger part of his mind, the part that screams her name in longing knows he could never. He could never hurt her, not on purpose.

That part of his mind loves her and isn't afraid to admit it. That part yells it to the world.

Logan's eyes are closed. His eyes are closed, his door is closed, his life is closed. Closed off from people, from the people he doesn't have in his life. He's shut away, safely, spending his days and nights lying there, bottles around him and her voice whispering in the stale air.

He can't stand it. He can't stand it, but he can't get away.

On broken legs, he stands up, just to wander the few feet to the bathroom. He stands in front of the mirror and thinks his eyes must still be closed, because this isn't him. The only bruises he sees are the ones under his eyes, and his body feels bruised all over. The only cracks are the ones in his dry lips, but he feels like he's falling apart.

He shudders, feels his body shake, and opens the cabinet, hiding from himself as the mirror faces the wall.

His hands grip the edge of the sink so hard that he feels the joints pop and imagines the sink crumbling under his fingers. They're pale and red around the nails where he ripped the skin away, thinking, _Veronica, Veronica, she's under my skin_.

_She's under my skin, she's all around, she's in my mind, she's in my house, she won't leave me alone, she won't_.

There's a bottle on the shelf, dusty, and he picks it up, holds it in his cold hand. The label stares up at him and in his bloodshot eyes it reads _Veronica_.

_Veronica. This will cure me, this will make her leave. Veronica_.

He opens it, each pill a painting of her face, and lets them slide down his throat, grating against dry skin. He swallows, muscles constricting happily around the poison, and he smiles, a dead, broken smile.

His fingers loosen their grip on the counter, his muscles and bones give out, and he lets her whisper in his mind one more time as he fades._ It's done_.

_Veronica_.


End file.
